


Poetry

by The_RyRy



Series: Verses [1]
Category: Tales of Graces
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, Magic, Multi, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29665218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_RyRy/pseuds/The_RyRy
Summary: Hubert encourages Captain Malik to explore his mage talents, discovering that the Captain uses poetry to channel his destructive artes. But that's not all that poetry can do, as Hubert finds out.
Relationships: Malik Caesar/Hubert Oswell
Series: Verses [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2179947
Kudos: 2





	Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> This long romance fic is in three parts, and I hope you enjoy it. I understand that this is somewhat of a rare pair, and if this could potentially inspire more adventures of Hubert and Malik, I would love to read it.

It was a hot afternoon in Yu Liberte, and Hubert was at work.

He had been to the military library and picked up a book on small group battle tactics, helpfully titled  _ Combat in Small Numbers: Tactics, Approaches, and Maneuvers _ that he recalled from his training. There were several copies, so the librarian had no qualms with letting Hubert take the most ragged copy out for a long-term loan. 

Though he was more expert at maneuvers with large, well-trained groups of soldiers, Hubert had begun to watch his companions in battle. It was becoming apparent that they were going to have to fight together against increasingly strong foes, and they needed tactics. Hubert loved this part of his training, and he had begun to draw up battle plans based on everyone’s strengths and weaknesses. _Combat in Small Numbers,_ even with its dog-eared pages, would be helpful for inspiration, but he had to fully understand the skills of his team. 

“Captain,” he said idly, noticing the man sitting alone while Asbel and Pascal were talking animatedly nearby at the dualizer’s table. “A moment?”

Malik was sitting at a table in the shade, looking through a little book that Hubert had often seen him with in the evenings. He looked up, placing a ribbon on the page in his book, and put down the charcoal pencil he had been holding. “How can I help you, Hubert?”

Hubert’s eyes went to the pencil. So the Captain wasn’t  _ reading  _ the book, he was  _ writing  _ in it. 

“I’ve been working on our battle tactics and strategy,” Hubert said, pulling a chair over to the table and sitting down. He showed the book to Malik. 

“Ah, this one,” Malik said. “Essential reading for our elite knights at the academy.” 

“So you’ve read it?” 

Malik raised an eyebrow. “I’ve  _ taught  _ this book, Hubert.”

Hubert felt his shoulders tense, ready for the onslaught of gatekeeping questions. Was he about to be quizzed by this man that no one really knew? 

“It seems you have too,” Malik continued, leaning forward and, to Hubert’s surprise, smiling and rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “What brings you to me with it?” 

Hubert forced himself to exhale, to breathe. This was not a test. “I’m very familiar with the sword, and Cheria’s throwing knives, and even Sophie’s hand-to-hand tactics. But I do not understand your battle style.” 

“You had mentioned that it was… what did you say? ‘Interesting’?” Malik leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. 

“Yes, I’ve not seen anyone do quite what you do. The bladerang I can comprehend as a ranged weapon, except how you manage to never lose it. I will attribute that to skill.” Hubert paused. “But there are sometimes that you… do things that I don’t quite grasp.” 

“Ah.” Malik put his hand on his book again. 

“They seem to be very damaging eleth tricks, or cryas modifications to your weapon, but I don’t understand what they are or how you do them.” 

Malik looked aside, his eyes going distant. “You’ve seen Asbel with his lightning, and Cheria with her healing magic.”

Hubert waited. He had seen that, and he had an eleth trick with water that he could do from time to time, which he found was especially potent when his weapon was enhanced with cryas as some of the dualizers could do, but the Captain’s work was nothing like that. 

“It’s not all that different,” Malik said, breaking the silence. 

“That’s not true,” Hubert retorted. “It’s  _ very  _ different. I’ve seen you standing back, mumbling to yourself, and then hell opens up from the sky and rains down on our enemies.” 

“Fire tricks,” Malik tried again.

“Yes, but you do it with air, and with -- dare I say -- spirit magic.” 

Malik looked around, from side to side. “You can’t mean to tell me you don’t know.” 

“Don’t know what, Captain?”

“About eleth-based artes? About elemental magic?” 

“I know about cryas artes, certainly,” Hubert answered. He had heard these words that Malik had used, but he did not know what it was or how it worked. 

Malik was silent for a long moment. He subtly pulled the book closer to himself. “Just think of it as an elemental arte. I need to stand very still, and concentrate. The words -- the mumbling, as you say -- helps focus it for me. If I can distract a foe with my bladerang, they might leave me be long enough for me to work it.”

“Do you channel it through your blade, as Pascal does through her staff?” 

Malik shook his head. 

Hubert had never heard of such a thing, at least not outside of silly children’s stories. “It’s not an enhancement with cryas? A weapon ability?” His own dualblade had the capacity to channel eleth at Hubert’s command, but it was dependent on the cryas in the weapon. 

“No,” Malik said. “But I make it look like it is. And I’d thank you to keep that between us for now.” 

Hubert tapped his fingers on the table. Now this was an interesting potential avenue for tactics. “Can you tell me -- how long do you need to stand still, to do this? And what can it do?” 

Malik looked at him warily. 

“I’m writing tactics, Captain. I’m following the guidance that you and I know so well from this book. I want to see if I -- or someone else -- can hold the enemies away from you so you don’t have to worry about your bladerang except in specific cases. So you can have your space to do this -- what do you call it? Elemental artes?” 

Malik leaned forward. “This is heresy to some,” he said in a low voice.    


Hubert looked him right in the eye. “This could be life or death someday,” he replied. “I don’t care about heresy, I care about winning.” 

A grin spread across Malik’s face. “Alright kid. Let’s see what you’ve got.” 

* * *

Hubert stabbed his blade in the foot of the foul creature, pinning it to the ground. “Now, Malik!” 

Malik was right behind him. It was too close, but they had talked this over, and it was time. Hubert caught a glimpse of the Captain, hands out in front of him, eyes closed, lips parted. They were so close in battle that, for once, Hubert could make out the words that Malik was saying. 

_ Cairn of kings, thy rage made real, thou shalt act as both grave and digger-- _

Hubert could not hear the rest of it, because the ground erupted from his left and right and he was barely able to step back before two jutting demon hands of rock smashed together on the creature, pulverizing it and finishing the battle. 

Cheria, hands glowing, was tending to Asbel’s injuries. It had been a tough fight, surprised as they were in this cave. 

“That was it!” Hubert said, turning to Malik. “That’s exactly what we can do with this skill of yours.” 

Eleth was still glowing in a strange circle around Malik’s body, giving him an ethereal appearance. His bladerang was sheathed on his back, well out of the way, making it obvious that Malik did not need it to channel eleth in his strange and powerful way. 

“Whoa, Captain, that was one crazy arte!” Pascal announced loudly from far behind. “You been hanging out with those Strahtan ancients, have you?” 

“Strahtan ancients?” Hubert said, lifting an eyebrow. 

“I’m surprised you don’t know about them.” Malik doubled over, heaving for breath. “I’ll tell you later. Let me see if Cheria has something for this--” He vomited up a greenish poison, obviously from the toxic cloud the insects had been spewing. 

“Oh Captain,” Cheria’s voice came loudly, “sit down and I’ll be right there.”

* * *

Hubert sat up late, scribbling his latest battle plans into his journal on the table outside the door to their rooms. He was taking notes on their battles of the day, listing what went well and what could work better. He had some ideas for formations to try in the morning. 

“You should get some sleep,” came Malik’s voice from the top of the stairs. 

“I just want to finish writing my thoughts about our performance today,” Hubert replied. 

“You’d fit right in at the Academy.” Malik sat down in the chair next to Hubert. 

“So,” Hubert said, closing his journal. “Tell me about these -- what were they, Strahtan ancients?”

Malik leaned back and heaved a sigh. “You’re a military officer, and you haven’t heard about them?”

“Say I haven’t,” Hubert replied. In reality, he hadn’t, and if he had he probably dismissed it as a child’s tale and promptly forgotten it. “Tell me.”

Malik closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples. “I told you I traveled around Strahta, right? After I left Fendel.”

Hubert nodded, waiting. He had learned that sometimes silence was what it took to get people to tell you the truth. 

“It wasn’t easy for a guy like me to get into Windor, although it was where I wanted to go, being as far removed from Fendel as I could get. So I took odd jobs in Strahta, including as muscle on a caravan of goods out to the mountains there past the ruins near Oul Raye.” 

Hubert winced. “The scorpions.” 

Malik nodded. “I will never forget them. But I traveled with a man who led this caravan and who had an odd disposition. He was small, wiry, and quiet, but he could dispatch those monsters by summoning the wind.” 

Hubert forced himself to stay silent, listening. 

“He noticed me watching him. He threatened me.” Malik laughed. “His name was Eizen. Said he was named after a great spirit with a tortured legacy. I didn’t even know what a spirit was, in those days.” 

“Pascal’s spirit friends,” Hubert said. “Are they the same?” 

Malik shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t say I fully understand the relationship just yet. But Eizen, once he realized I was not going to any authorities for any reason, began to feel more comfortable around me. He taught me my first arte.” 

Hubert was surprised to see Malik reach inside his vest and produce the small book. He opened it to the first page.  _ Weapons of fury _ was written there in a faded charcoal script. 

“And this Eizen was one of these ancients?” Hubert asked, still staring at the inside of the book that Malik kept hidden. 

“I think so,” Malik said, turning the page.  _ Breath of flames  _ was written there, and the edge of the page was burnt. “He never said as much, but as I traveled and heard more, I came to realize that he might have been.” Another page turn, this time with several lines crossed out, ending with  _ O iciest of perils.  _ “He taught me only two artes, and said the rest were mine to find.” 

“To find?” Hubert looked up at Malik, and suddenly realized that they were sitting  _ very close _ . He had an impulse to pull away, but quashed it. Something was happening here, and he had to bear this for the moments it took to understand. 

“For those of us who can channel this, for whom the spirits  _ respond _ ,” Malik closed his book tenderly. “We can find incantations in words that cluster around our hearts and minds, that tingle our senses. I can’t explain it, but when Eizen was calling the wind, I could feel what he was doing, and he said that was a sign that I could practice these artes as well.” 

Hubert recalled his phrases, eyes closed, hands moving.  _ O cairn of kings…  _ “How do you learn to feel this? Is this something that can be taught, like the weapon skills?”

Malik shook his head. “Eizen said it was a talent like any other, like being able to sing or play music or draw.” He tapped his fingers on the book. “Everybody can feel eleth, just as you can feel the water eleth in the desert air in Strahta when Duplemar is active, or the heat of fire near your skin. But not everybody can hold the spirit of eleth within and call it to his bidding.” 

“Is that what you’re doing?” Hubert leaned back, finally feeling like he was understanding. “Making the eleth do your bidding?” 

Malik grinned a little. “Most of the time. Sometimes, though, I feel like I’m just a conduit for the rage of the spirits, the rage of the earth and fire. I am a gateway for the eleth they channel when they are angry with us.”

“And your poetry is the key.” Hubert finally understood. This man next to him was an offensive spellcaster, something he had only read about in fantasy stories as a youth, but which had clearly been built on a kernel of reality just as the dashing swordsmen had been. Those  _ mages,  _ as they had been called, wore robes and funny hats in the stories. But here was one in front of him, who had deceptively made him think of a strong weapons fighter, but who hid a secret power under the surface the whole time. 

Malik was looking at him. “You’re not… alarmed?” 

Hubert shook his head. “As I said before, I value winning over theoretical heresy. If we have a truly powerful mage in our party, it is foolish to not use his talents, and even more foolish to hide him.”  __

“A mage, you say. I had taken you for someone who thought this to be the domain of fairy tales,” Malik said. 

“I had, but I can be swayed by evidence.” He gestured at Malik’s secret book. “Do you have to mumble your words?” 

“What?” Malik looked taken aback. 

“You speak them quietly, your words that call the spirits. What happens if you shout them?” 

“I--” Malik pulled the book closer to his body protectively. “First, I reveal what I am doing.” 

“That’s not my concern. What happens if you shout them?” 

Malik held Hubert’s gaze firmly. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s not exactly something that I could try without prying eyes.” 

“It’s time to try.” Hubert reached over and put his hand on Malik’s, over top of his book. “We are facing enemies whose strength we cannot gauge. I think this group is ready to know who you are and what you can do. And I think we’re ready to help you find out how powerful you really are.” 

* * *

“What are we doing out here?” Asbel asked, looking at their surroundings. Hubert had brought them out to this stretch of flat sand outside the Oul Raye port. It was far from civilization and prying eyes, but with plenty of eleth in the air and a few enemies with valuable parts to collect for their journey ahead. 

“Training,” Hubert said flatly. “I want to try something.” 

“Alright Hubert,” Sophie said, flipping her gauntlets over her hands. “What do we do?” 

“Stand back but be ready.” He gestured to Asbel. “Brother, can you attract the ire of one of these flying insects with those nice needles you so value for your dualizing?” 

“Why?” Asbel said. “They sting.” 

“I want you to bring it here but distract it. Keep it away from the Captain.” 

“Ooh ooh!” Pascal lifted her shotstaff above her head. “Is he trying a new arte? What is it?” 

“I don’t know,” Malik said frankly. “I don’t know what it does. But I want to find out.” 

“You have to hold it steady,” Hubert said. “You have to keep it from him. And you have to let him use an incantation.” 

“An incantation?” Asbel scratched his head. “Like the mages in those books you used to read?” 

“Exactly.” Hubert gestured at Asbel. “And you read them too; in fact, all of my copies had your name written in them, so you know what I’m talking about. And you’ve seen Malk’s capabilities over and over in battle. Our Captain here has strong command over elemental artes that can bring great destruction.”

“Like my lightning,” Asbel said, eyes widening. 

“Yes, but an order of magnitude higher. _ ”  _ Hubert found himself speaking passionately on Malik’s behalf as the other man stood by, arms crossed. This was something he could never have imagined seeing, nevermind learning in the presence of someone who was -- well, his  _ friend _ , maybe. He gestured at Cheria, standing to the side. “You’ve seen how Cheria’s abilities have grown stronger to heal our wounds. I think the Captain’s artes are also growing stronger, but their utility is offense against our enemies.”

Asbel’s mouth was hanging open. Cheria nodded. “I know how that feels. I’m ready to help.”

“Go get the insect,” Hubert said to his brother. “Hold it steady. Let’s see what the Captain can do.” 

“What do we do?” Sophie and Pascal said almost in unison. 

“Be ready, and stand at range on each side of the Captain, with Asbel at the point. Sophie, be ready with healing; Pascal, with your glyphs and protections. Cheria, stay back in case things go sideways. We don’t know what this arte will do.” 

Asbel nodded, apparently ready and willing. He started off towards a nest of the giant insects, and Hubert looked to Malik. “Are you ready?” 

Malik tucked his book inside his coat. He clapped his hands together, sand flying. “Let’s give it a go.” 

“Guys! GUYS!” 

Hubert whirled at his brother’s cry. “Oh shit,” Hubert said as the scorpion came into view. “Asbel!” 

“I’ll hold it!” Asbel turned and drew his sword in a whirlwind. Sophie was already channeling her eleth to a healing spell and Pascal was leveling her shotstaff. 

“Captain,  _ now _ ,” Hubert said as Asbel pierced the carapace of the scorpion’s head with his blade. “It’s--” 

He was interrupted by a flutter of wind. Malik had his hands held out before him in an odd vertical position. He had his eyes open, eleth flaring around him with a light that glinted off the rising sand. “ _Wind_!” he called out with what Hubert had only heard when he was commanding them in mid-battle. 

The wind howled back at him, seemingly in response. 

“ _Thou quickened dagger_ \--” Malik’s coat flared around him, and Hubert found himself stepping back, readying his guns. Malik continued, apparently unfazed by the wind and sand whipping around him. He moved his hands inward towards his stomach, as if preparing a dagger thrust. “ _No shield can repel thine unforeseen stab_!” He pushed his hands forward and the sand around him swirled. He shouted something else from the back of his throat that Hubert couldn’t make out, as the sand rushed around him and forward, disappearing in a whirlwind towards the scorpion. 

Suddenly, Asbel was thrown back, caught off-guard. A circle of wind tightened around the scorpion, lacerating it with billions of particles of sand. It flailed helplessly, caught in the maelstrom of wind that Malik directed with a flick of his fingers. 

  
Hubert watched as the sand spun itself into a grinder, tearing the scorpion apart piece by piece. Malik flicked his fingers then reached for his bladerang as the sand maelstrom collapsed on itself, taking the eviscerated scorpion with it. 

The silence was deafening. Asbel stood up and brushed himself off. “Captain--” he said with a voice that was somewhere between fear and reverence. 

“That was  _ AWESOME _ ,” Pascal declared from her position far away. “How did you  _ do that?! _ ” 

Malik looked at Hubert and grinned. Hubert shrugged nonchalantly, as though he had not just seen a mind-bendingly incredible magical demonstration. “Try not to hit Asbel with that,” he said. “Or me, for that matter.” 

Malik looked at his hands. “I don’t think they’d hit you,” he said. “The spirits I call, they know who is friend and who is foe.” 

Hubert pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Then I don’t ever want to be counted as your foe.”

* * *

Hubert lay awake in the middle of the night. Malik was on his mind, and it was  _ cold _ . 

He was still amazed that he had been fooled by the man’s appearance. He’d written him off as a muscled old veteran, standing back from the fight with his ranged weapon, more concerned with body appearance and strength for its ability to attract lovers. 

Malik had, they’d learned, been quite the lover in Zavhert in his revolutionary days. And it had been love gone wrong that had driven him away from his home. And then -- tragedy. His oldest friend -- and, Hubert had guessed, another lover -- had perished while foolishly pushing the limits of the valkines. 

Malik was probably drinking himself to death in the bar, and Hubert honestly couldn’t blame him. This place was miserable. 

Hubert rolled over, pulling the blanket around himself to ward off the cold. He could hear Malik’s poetry in his head, the gateway to the spirits, the anger that seemed to channel through him.  _ Oh angry howl of the dragon god. Carve thine epitaph of destruction upon mine foes. O corrosion, blitzer of hope-- _

Hubert sighed. He threw the blanket off, then thought better of it and wrapped it around his shoulders as he made his way downstairs. 

Malik was there, as expected, sitting at the tiny table with a single lantern, writing in his book. A small glass of brownish liquid sat untouched next to him. 

More poetry. More rage. More spirits. 

“Captain,” Hubert said, sitting down in the chair next to him and settling the blanket back over his shoulders. It was cold this night, but here Malik was with hardly more than his usual jacket and thin pink shirt. He had put a scarf around his neck. “You should get some sleep.” 

“Set thy steadfast hand upon this heart,” Malik said, his words clear and separated. 

Hubert rubbed his eyes, as though that would help him process what Malik had said. He gave up. “What did you say?”

“It’s a line.  _ Set thy steadfast hand upon this heart.”  _ Malik put his charcoal pencil down. Hubert noticed that it had been sharpened to a point and worn down only slightly. “I can’t get it out of my head. It makes my heart ache, my palms feel hot. It has to be fire.” He flexed his fingers. 

“Funny, I can’t get your poetry out of my head tonight either,” Hubert admitted, then regretted it. 

“Poetry has a way,” Malik said, his voice low. “I wish I could use it to do something other than channel the rage of the spirits.” 

“Not every line of verse has to be a spell,” Hubert said, using the word from the novels as a way to distinguish what Malik was doing from the artes that everyone else could achieve. As he said this, though, he wasn’t sure that he was right about Malik’s words. What if Malik wrote a poem about the cats that Cheria had  _ insisted  _ they feed on their journey? Would they channel their rage and attack their enemies? 

“Oh, to be young as dawn,” Malik said, his tone measured and even. “To see the world with eyes afresh, thine pulse quickened with joy.” 

Hubert took a measured breath to match Malik’s words. “A poem for a lost love?” 

“No, for you.” 

Hubert felt like he was going to have a heart attack. His shoulders tensed so much that the blanket shifted off of them. “Did you just--” he tried to say, tried to deflect. 

“I see it in you. You grew older than your years through your trauma,” Malik continued. “Being shunned from your family for no reason that I can see except the ambitions of a misguided father, sent to a strange country, made to defend yourself. I never would have taken you for seventeen, until that day you came to me excited about creating battle tactics. That youthful joy on you, it made me think, maybe I still have some in me too.” 

Hubert couldn’t find any words. He wanted to deflect. He wanted to hide. He was transported by Malik’s words back in time to being that little boy, afraid of his shadow, convinced his big brother would protect him, only to be let down. Sand in his shoes, his reflection sharp in the harsh Strahtan sun, he’d had to forge himself over again. 

He’d thought no one could protect him, that he had to protect himself. He’d built a shell between himself and the world. And Malik had seen right through it. 

“See the past in thy present, a hidden fear, a hopeful spark, a carapace to shield thy wounded heart.” Poetry was tumbling out of Malik now, and Hubert felt warmth around him, though he couldn’t say if this was Malik conjuring fire eleth or if Hubert’s skin was just vibrating under his gaze. 

There was a long stretch of silence as Hubert felt the air warm and cool around him, and marveled. The words  _ shield thy wounded heart  _ worked their way around in his mind. He couldn’t find words, certainly not any like those Malik had given him. 

Malik opened his book to the last page. He wrote. He drank the untouched liquid in his glass in one swallow, setting the empty vessel back on the table with a dull  _ thunk _ . He tore out the page -- tore out a page! in his precious journal that he kept by his heart -- and handed it to Hubert. 

_ O to be young as dawn _

_ To see the world with eyes afresh _

_ thine pulse quickened with joy. _

_ See the past in thy present,  _

_ a hidden fear, a hopeful spark,  _

_ a carapace to shield thy wounded heart. _

By the time Hubert looked up, Malik was gone. 


End file.
